


be there when i'm burnin' out

by casualbird



Series: dad! heaven! now! [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Communication, Explicit Consent, First Time, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Spoilers, Pet Names, Post-Canon, Repression, Sharing a Bed, it's about the yearning, where do i even begin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23287114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird
Summary: Hanneman cut the sharpest, slightest figure, a bright darning needle of a man, and Gilbert was always mesmerized. The center of him seemed to slip from his mind to the palms of his hands, twitching, scheming to hold him, to trace his angles, to see if his own hands were broad enough towrap around that waist.Hanneman couldn't possibly allow Gilbert back out in such a storm, no matter how the man refuses to impose.
Relationships: Hanneman von Essar/Gilbert Pronislav
Series: dad! heaven! now! [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1674718
Comments: 10
Kudos: 57





	be there when i'm burnin' out

**Author's Note:**

> buckle your fucking seatbelts kids

It was only in the interest of chivalry that Gilbert escorted Hanneman home through the sleet. Only to make sure he wasn't waylaid by the cold, the damp, the ice forming in patches on cobbled paths. No ulterior motive, and the Goddess strike him down if he lied.

It seemed, that night, that she could have, with all her blowing tempest. Even through the bulwark walls of the monastery, the thunder, the vicious mountain winds were audible. They stood for a moment at Hanneman's doorstep, listening, exchanging hushed pleasantries while Gilbert marshaled up the courage to face the wrath of it again.

Because he would, because from the start he'd been planning to. Really, it had never crossed his mind--he'd never been in Hanneman's rooms past a certain twilit hour, and he wasn't about to impose on him just for a little weather, not half so bad as it ever got in Faerghus.

Well. Perhaps that wasn't entirely honest. It had crossed his mind as if strolling through a sunlit garden, pausing to contemplate each dew-speckled bloom, downright _leisurely._ How lovely it would be to take refuge in the soft fortress of Hanneman's sitting room, in the warmth, the autumn-gold flicker of his hearth, to nestle next to him on the crushed-velvet sofa. To take tea with him, and sigh in the solace of his honeyed words, tender kisses...

Gilbert arrested himself, biting harsh on the inside of his cheek. Took a steadying breath, straightened to stand at something like parade rest. Shivered--couldn't help it--dripped wretched on the floor.

"I--ah..." he mumbled, once Hanneman had finished a bright tirade about the damage done his hairstyle, silken ascot. "It's best that I hurry home, now, before it gets any slicker."

And Hanneman cocked his head, like some great bird, a dear thing. "Are you quite serious?" he asked, knowing the answer. "Do you truly intend to walk all the way across the monastery in _that?"_

For lack of a better answer, Gilbert nodded. Curt, terse, the kind of motion he'd learned on a drill sergeant's bark. Not without affection nevertheless.

"Dearest," sighed Hanneman, as if utterly unbothered that anyone might hear, "you'll catch your death, if you haven't already! Look at you, you must be soaked to the skin!"

"I will endure." And Gilbert--darted his eyes up the hallway, standing sentinel for any errant faculty, overzealous staff, and took Hanneman's damp quivering hand in his, raised it swiftly, gently to his lips. Kissed the knob of a knuckle, a split-second's indulgence, eyes shuddering shut with the sensation. And then lowered their hands, broke, turned before those lithe graceful fingers caught his wrist.

Something febrile within him wondered if Hanneman could feel the flicker of his pulse through thin skin. Hoped--should have hoped--that he could not

"Gilbert." Hanneman's voice was as brisk, as light-handed as ever, but it firmed like water freezing over. "I really must insist that you stay with me tonight. If I let you go out in--in all that?" He sighed, gesturing to the rain-battered window. "My dear, I'd be up all night for worry."

A swallow, thick and heavy, the knitting of shivering hands. Truly--would he? For all the drama of it, it didn't ring false. Really, the image was clear--Hanneman in a nightshirt, bedclothes drawn up round his shoulders, gaze listing toward his window. He'd purse his lips, in that way he did, furrow his brow as if trying to recall something, as if fighting down a sigh. Gilbert always found himself a little bewildered, met with that expression. Always trying to divine some way to help, to at least be less of a burden himself. And if leaving would strike more of an imposition, well, what was Gilbert to do?

Indeed, what to do but nod, and smile tight, and feel--perhaps--the minutest lance of excitement pierce him as Hanneman ushered him through the door.

Excitement and _relief,_ stepping into that sanctum, breathing in the must and dust and sandalwood, unlacing his boots in the tiny foyer while Hanneman hummed, stripped away his clinging coat.

Gilbert--couldn't help but sneak a glance at him, then, an awkward appreciative once-over as Hanneman bent to step out of his shoes. It was already a rarity that Gilbert saw the man without his greatcoat, or, in his home, without some thick-wooled cardigan, professorial and darling in its way, but... But underneath, Hanneman cut the sharpest, slightest figure, a bright darning needle of a man, and Gilbert was always mesmerized. The center of his body seemed to slip from his mind to the palms of his hands, twitching, scheming to hold him, to trace his angles, to see if his own hands were broad enough to _wrap around that waist._ And with the storm--he was soaked through, and while Gilbert shivered for him he still couldn't help but notice the melting of his clothes against his body, the ever-so-slight translucency of that white shirt against his ribs.

And then Hanneman rose, and loped in his stocking feet across the deep-toned Almyran carpet, and Gilbert remembered himself. Sank teeth full into the soft flesh of his cheek, felt shame gouging through him like a shovel through snow.

Hanneman just--kept humming, a brisk waltz that must have been Adrestian. None the wiser, apparently, though the lechery showed through Gilbert's sodden trousers. No, he carried on, gathering flame in his cupped hands and urging it into his neat-swept hearth. Turned, smiled.

"Come in," he said, gentle. "Please. I'll run you a bath straightaway, dry your wet things while you're in. Make up a pot of tea, hmm? Chamomile?, I think the two of us deserve a good night's rest."

Gilbert didn't unclench his teeth, just--attempted however thickly, to process all the hospitality, the ease with which it was offered up. Was offered up--of all people--to _him._ Which oughtn't have surprised him any longer, not from doting Hanneman, but... still.

"I thank you," and the words fell weakly from his lips. Hanneman nodded all the same, told him he'd be but a moment before disappearing into the bathroom.

It felt like--oh, Gilbert wasn't sure. He was a patient man, as a general rule, but the minutes crept as he waited, standing square where he was left. Breathing, digging scrubbed nails into his rough palms, feeling his wet clothes warm sickly against his skin.

He'd managed to recover some composure by the time Hanneman returned, smiling with his wet sleeves rolled over his sharp elegant elbows, hair mussed as if he'd combed those long fingers through, pushing it out of bright eyes. Guiding him to the bath, brimming-full and steaming, scented with--with something soft and herbal, recognizable from the linger of it on the thin skin of his neck in those rare moments when Gilbert allowed himself close enough.

It seemed right to say something, to shake one's head and say 'you oughtn't've,' but before Gilbert could quite gather himself to it, Hanneman interrupted with his clear voice, a brief squeeze of his hand.

"Just--leave your clothes on the floor outside, and I'll dry them." And Gilbert nodded, and again when Hanneman bid him to _enjoy,_ flitting out and closing the door behind.

He undressed brusque, utilitarian, cracked the door just slightly to lay his dripping clothes out on the floor--Hanneman, he noted, with a little smile, had laid a towel out for them. He was always--if not without his quirks, his flair--a blessedly prudent man.

Gilbert bathed skittish, keeping his own touch to a minimum. Half-mad, despite the comfort of the water--on another day, Gilbert could imagine himself sinking into it, letting it suffuse his worn bones, old wounds. Wondered if Hanneman ever did the same, lying languid, reading, perhaps, or just... falling into some kind of reverie, bliss. Humming one of his little tunes.

Suddenly, though, the heat of him had much less to do with the water, and the train of thought had to be scruffed at the neck like an errant kitten, carried back where it belonged.

He didn't linger after that, just drained the tub, made certain he hadn't left anything out of place. Waited at the vanity, pondering over all Hanneman's little phials, atomizers, before there was a knock, and the door opened a modest crack, and his clothes were passed back through.

When Gilbert was a young man, in the interest of strength and king and country, he would plunge into deep clear Faerghan lakes, swim until his lungs threatened collapse, until it was all he could do to drag the flotsam of his body to shore, blue-lipped and quivering. To shiver even in the mild summer breeze until dry, but then--to shuffle back into his dark clothes, warmed through by the sun, and heave relief.

Only now, he was warm to begin with, and his clothes even cozier, dried meticulous on some low-burning fire spell, and it felt like the receding of a headache he'd gotten used to some time ago.

Being with Hanneman generally felt that way, he thought, like straggling nude onto the pebbled beach, being finally enfolded in something--warm, familiar, sunshine-smelling.

Like that, only with the acute, needling feel of being watched, scrutinized, laid bare for the Goddess and everyone.

Gilbert sighed, and set his jaw, and left the bathroom.

Was greeted with that same companionable smile, as if Hanneman truly delighted in seeing him, as if he'd been wishing him well all the fifteen minutes he'd been away. Gilbert offered a little smile in return, his same crooked, modest thing, and Hanneman received it just as eagerly as he always had. Ushered him into the bedchamber, his long woolen robe trailing behind as he walked.

The look of him like this--dressed for bed, with his hair newly dried, squinting in the absence of his monocle... somehow, it was just as tempting as he'd been before, a different but equal kind of deshabille. Gilbert swallowed around it, folded his hands.

Hanneman's bedchamber was small, if only because it was just as cluttered as the rest of his rooms. Walls lined with shelves, shelves straining under the weight of rare tomes, little curiosities. What wall space there was was occupied by miniatures, little portraits of people from what Gilbert assumed was his companion's past life in Adrestia.

The bedsheets were turned out over the thick sage-colored eiderdown, the pillows plumped and crisped. Hanneman's familiar tea service sat on the nightstand, two cups cooling at the side.

"Come now," said Hanneman, brightly, and it was only then that Gilbert realized he'd stopped. Had just... been standing in the doorway, as if the bedroom threshold was a portal to another realm. "I've run a warming pan between the sheets, ought to bed down before it gets cold."

"I--forgive me, but I could not possibly..." A sigh, the reordering of thoughts like a company brought to attention. New recruits, yet useless, but trying anyway. "I was under the impression that I was to take the sofa."

Hanneman sighed, so fondly that Gilbert couldn't stand it. "What kind of host would I be, my dear, if I didn't accommodate you as well as I could?"

"Oh," said Gilbert soberly, "no. No, I refuse to put you out of your bed... I've troubled you enough already."

A shake of the head, just as sweet. Hanneman had a way of saying things he thought would be obvious that just... didn't feel patronizing. It came, Gilbert supposed, from so many years of teaching. "Heavens, no! Gilbert--if you're amenable, I'd intended for us to share the bed."

"If it truly makes you uncomfortable, you may sleep wherever you like, but... Well, it would certainly be warmer this way, and I can't say I'd be averse to waking up beside you."

Gilbert choked--he must have been so red already, must have been wearing his bashfulness like a sunburn, but there was nothing to stop it from flaring even higher.

Was it... was it truly proper for Hanneman to say something like that? And if it was... would that mean that it was permissible for Gilbert to concede?

Seiros, but he wanted to. Wanted to face the chill of morning with Hanneman at his side, wanted to turn to him, see that sharp, astute face totally at rest.

Wanted to warm him through the night, and surely... surely that would be reason enough.

So he steeled himself, nodded terse, shuffled stiff between the covers... and it was _bliss,_ just lovely, the comfort of it sinful when compared to his own half-ascetic bed.

And when Hanneman passed him a perfect cup of chamomile, clinked their teacups in a cheery little toast, when he settled in beside him... the only thing greater than the joy of it was the deep dread that still colonized the base of Gilbert's spine.

Surely, this couldn't last. Surely, at some point, Hanneman would come to his senses, understand how he'd been wronged, how he'd allowed Gilbert to press advantage against his kindness, his depthless even calm.

Even that, though, had to recede. With gentle conversation, the sound of Hanneman's rhythmic slow page-turning, with the tea, the bedclothes, the _company_ warming him over...

With the cold rain beating on the walls and windows, the bone-chill of it a fading memory, it was not too terribly long before Gilbert found himself quite overtaken with sleep.

* * *

Gilbert woke on a gasp, half-choked and shivering despite the heat. When they'd bedded down together, drawn the eiderdown around their shoulders it had been a soft, homely warmth... but now it felt like fever, wracking him in waves.

He stayed still, even though his cheek burned against the pillowcase, mussed hair trapped coarse against his skin. Even though just a little shift would cool him, the slightest reshuffling of his body, uncurling to dissipate the heat. If he moved, he might wake dear Hanneman, snoring blissful at his side, softly radiating heat. Might draw attention to himself, might have to... acknowledge this.

That he was flaring again, incessant and unquenchable, that in his comfort, in his surrender to this--craving, this widening rend in his breastplate, he'd left himself woefully unguarded.

He didn't remember the dreams in their entirety--not even scraps of them, only the sawdust their construction left behind. The taste of a kiss, more vibrant than ever it'd been, with tea and spice and breath; fingertips fumbling at the clasps of sock garters, brushing too-smooth calves; his own piteous sounds mingling with Hanneman's gorgeous, otherworldly pitchy sighs. A protest of his knees, like praying too long.

Gilbert bit deep, punishing into his lip, stinging between the sharp chipped edges of old-soldier teeth. Thought of day-old battlefields, moldering hardtack, the well-worn cadence of a penance prayer.

Kept aching, perspiring, coiling--kept _wanting_ anyway.

Kept seeing Hanneman that evening, sharp cheekbones gleaming with rainwater. And then with sweat, tight swan's neck braced against a pillow, his bare waist an inference from what Gilbert had seen through clinging shirt.

Hanneman shifted, then, murmuring in his sleep, and for a moment Gilbert didn't see, didn't think of anything. Just--felt the brush of a slender thigh, a bird-boned hip, abrupt and barely-there and still searing, blitzing through him with all the force of a lightning spell.

As still as he'd been, Gilbert jolted, drawing back, crowding against the bed's outer edge. Withdrew on himself even further, and wanted to turn away--to retreat, even, escape and let the beating sleet freeze out this temptation.

If he moved too much, Hanneman would wake. And. Also, he had to remind himself, stern-eyed and strong-jawed: there would be no running away.

"I mustn't," he ground out, commander-firm. "I _mustn't."_

Only with the rustling of bedclothes, with a soft groggy muttering did he realize he'd spoken aloud.

"Hmm... dearheart?" Hanneman's voice was hoarse, dulled with sleep, and something in Gilbert craved to take that voice and hold it, protect it from all harm. To have it closer, whispering warm-wet in his ear... and there it was again, the throb of shame like a thick lash. "Is there something wrong?"

It would be... unforgivable, to lie to him. So Gilbert--steeled himself, the parts that hadn't yet rusted through, and gathered his words.

"I--I apologize," he creaked, jaw grinding. "I seem to have become... ah, o-overexcited."

A shuffle--Hanneman leaned up on his elbow, craned his body to light the bedside lamp. And if Gilbert had marveled once at the way flame was born on Hanneman's fingertips, he had a thousand times, but... even now, the wonder of it was almost enough to distract him.

Almost, because when the lamp caught, it cast the most perfect half-light across Hanneman's face, underscoring all his angles, throwing in relief his fine sharp nose, cheekbones, furrowed brow. Under the eiderdown, Gilbert's fingers curled.

And curled tighter when Hanneman settled in again, close enough to soften his focus, blur the edges of him. "My dear," he murmured, voice retaining that crispness even as it melted quiet, gentle. "There is no need for an apology."

Gilbert sighed, a wracking shiver of a thing. What would it take, he asked himself, to make Hanneman see? His companion was a stubborn man, like an iron-prowed ship. Whenever he encountered a point of contention he'd just... push on through, insist.

 _Sometimes he's right,_ whispered a treacherous little thing. Gilbert caught it between his back teeth, refused to let it get any farther.

"It is... improper," he managed, his voice brittle. "In the first place, for me to intrude upon your bed, and then... to be so..." He wasn't certain what the word was going to be. _Immoderate,_ maybe? _Uncontrolled?_ No... _Audacious,_ perhaps, that he could--"That I could have the gall..."

If it was possible, Gilbert thought, his mind jumping tracks, the lamplight made Hanneman's kind bleary eyes, his new-moon smile looked even gentler. He chewed his lip, held still, tried to ration his breathing.

He'd barely had time to correct himself before Hanneman spoke, as breezy as he'd ever been.

"A complete non-sequitur, dearheart. No, Gilbert, I don't think that follows in the least. Tell me--how could you be imposing on me, if I invited you in? If I clarified for you, which I did, how pleased I'd be to rest at your side?"

It was never, ever any use arguing with Hanneman. And that little thing, imprisoned in the space between Gilbert's molars, caught him by the ear and reminded him, low, that that was _comforting._

"Y-you've a point."

A placid little smile. "I have, haven't I? Now, would you say that the two of us have become close? That we care deeply for one another, hold each other in esteem?"

Gilbert hadn't thought it was possible for his heart to beat any more vigorously, but it thrummed in his throat with all the depth of bass strings, hastily plucked. "Yes."

"Good," said Hanneman, and there was an edge or the lecturer in his tone... but only just a little. His tone was sanded smooth like a wooden carving, just before it is finished. "I... had hoped that you would. Anyway--I consider you my paramour, Gilbert, if that's alright. And it is my dearest wish that you would think the same of me."

There was an iron ring around Gilbert's throat, but he steadies himself, pressed on. "I--suppose that I do."

Hanneman's smile turned, then, like crystalline honey melting, drizzling over his face. It's the expression he'd wear, generally, before taking Gilbert's hand, before asking, always so primly, to kiss him.

Gilbert wanted to kiss him then, wanted it terribly. Wanted to clutch him to his chest, enfold his slenderness completely. To splay hands over him, feel his own fumbling fall away, wanted to know how to touch him properly and wanted it all in a rush.

For a certain definition of propriety, that is, and it wasn't Gilbert's. So he balled his fists, stiffened his back, grit teeth at the ache between his thighs.

"Now, now," murmured Hanneman, and it's strange--how he can say that, when really it didn't mean anything, and have the sound of it, the very edge of the warmth of his breath still be such a balm? "You've done nothing wrong, my heart. I was just about to say--if we feel this affection for one another, then wouldn't you say that it's natural? Instinctual, even _reasonable_ for us to desire to be intimate together?"

For a moment, Gilbert couldn't answer. Couldn't do anything, really, save for lie there and clench and listen to the wyvern-roar of blood in his ears.

Hanneman reached out for him, hand drifting toward his shoulder, but he thought better of it. Gilbert wasn't sure whether he ought to be grateful. Hanneman's touch--even if through his undershirt, even if just the cold pale pads of his fingers--would be a nearly unbearable pleasure.

"It is natural," Hanneman reiterated, and his tone fell even softer, like the barest-steeped cup of tea, "for the body to crave a loving touch. It is a human need, my dearest, the same as eating and breathing, and I..." He paused a moment, and Gilbert swore that through the low light he could see color dust across Hanneman's high cheekbones. "I would be honored to provide."

"On the Goddess," whispered Gilbert, before he knew he was saying anything. "I want you to." And it was true, so true that he shivered with it, that his rheumatic fingers protested how doggedly he curled them, that his tired eyes began to sting.

"But I do not want to do you wrong," he told him, biting off the words 'my love.' "And I... I cannot possibly deserve..."

The blankets rustles as Hanneman settles just the slightest bit closer, raised his hand once more. Gilbert nodded, just the very slightest gesture, and that hand came to rest just gently on his shoulder, through his shirt, through the rumpled sheet.

"My darling," crooned Hanneman, and it's nothing he's ever said to him before. Nothing Gilbert has ever been _called,_ full stop, and it lanced through him, made him quiver, made him need. "You could never, you have been so good to me. Even when it's difficult for you, you are honest, dependable, kind. That, to me, means that you more than deserve to be loved."

"If you are truly uncomfortable, Gilbert, I can go into the next room, and you may remedy your situation any way you like. But given that this is something we both want... I would hope you'd allow me to tend to you."

When he'd first been stricken awake, when the desire rang in him like the toll of a cathedral bell, Gilbert could have knelt and prayed to be alone, to face his temptation the way he has before--lying flat on his spare mattress, a draught creeping in to dampen the heat of him. To have had the room to pace, to wring his hands, the silence to think about nothing.

With Hanneman so near him, spilling such sweet words, _touching_ him... to turn him away was nigh-unthinkable.

And there was something imprisoned deep in the cage of Gilbert's ribs, something soft, bruised. Something that said, now as ever, that Hanneman was right.

"Please," Gilbert croaked, and it felt like confession.

Hanneman squeezed the knob of his shoulder, just lightly. Still it thrilled him. "Please leave? Or please touch me?"

"...The latter."

That warm, gentle smile melted further across Hanneman's face, and--if it was even possible--everything of him softened. "Darling," he murmured, sliding his palm slowly, experimentally up to cradle the tense angle of Gilbert's jaw. "Gladly. Let me kiss you?"

A nod, still minuscule, still tense--but it didn't cow him. Hanneman leaned for him as fluid and practiced as he did everything else, knowing just the right way to tilt his head, the exact distance to part his lips. Gilbert couldn't breathe.

His skin was cool against Gilbert's cheek, his thin lips unbelievably soft. There was almost no pressure--it was as if Hanneman was as wary of imposing as Gilbert himself. Still, Gilbert shook for it, couldn't help but muffle a fragile sigh in Hanneman's mouth.

Drawing back, Hanneman's long-lashed eyes opened just slightly, just enough that Gilbert could see the question in them. "Are you enjoying yourself, dear one?"

Something unpleasant supplied _what does it matter?_ But this was only a half-measure of pragmatism; it would have been easier just to send him off, to quash this some other way. So, it did. Less, perhaps, than whether Hanneman was alright, than making certain he wasn't put out, but...

"I--I am," Gilbert murmured, and his voice shattered like a dropped glass. Clever fingers pet his cheek, reach to tuck stray hairs behind a reddened ear.

"Very good." He offered a little smile at that, the edges of his eyes crinkling up, and it was something about his face, or the closeness of him, or the _words..._ Gilbert wasn't certain, just knew that there is a fault line somewhere in him, that for years it had been tensing, tensing, _tensing._ That it was nearly broken--he couldn't help listing closer, ducking his head into the edge of Hanneman's pillow, just below his jaw. Couldn't help a ragged little sound.

Hanneman cooed to him, laid those lips against the crown of his head, drew that hand down languidly to rest in the tight space between Gilbert's shoulder blades.

"Poor darling," he whispered, "are you alright?"

Gilbert nodded, softly. "I am... not uncomfortable," he clarifies--but it was only true in a sense. He wasn't, in that the things of his that would object to this, would warn Hanneman away... had taken a momentary leave of absence. At least, he could reason with them. Allow himself this--this decadence, if only because it was so freely, sweetly given.

Still, he ached. It was like taking wild magic, straight in the gut, the kind of force that doesn't need to be tangible to steal his breath, to run him aground. And that was what it felt like, Gilbert found, a wound. Not in the pain of it, but... lying there, under Hanneman's care, the full focus of his dulcet bedside manner?

How long had it been since Gilbert had felt so provided for, so _held?_

His breathing sped with it, if it could possibly go any faster, heave any deeper. Muscles clenched, twitched. Hanneman was...watching him, so delicately, adoringly focused, and there was no sound but that of his own panting, the rain that splattered on the windowpane. He had to say something.

"Thank you," he managed, and sounded pathetic, a shipwreck of a man. Hanneman made that noise again, soft like the worn cushions of his familiar sofa. It was the kind of thing one might hear out of someone with a cat in their lap, or after a bird has alighted on their outstretched finger, and there was a distant echo through Gilbert's mind-- _do I deserve this?_

A darling little laugh shook him out of it, and he was tossed again into that urge--to hold Hanneman tightly, gather him up, be moored to him.

"I assure you, Gilbert, you're more than welcome." His voice was so even, and that, too, is a tether. "But dearheart... you can't wait any longer, hm?"

That hand shifted lower, toward the center of Gilbert's back, tracing slowly soothing circles.

"You look as if you need my touch so badly... may I give it to you?"

Hanneman was always, always right. "Yes," Gilbert confessed, with barely enough breath in him to voice it. "If it--if you truly wish it...!"

"Of course," Hanneman murmured, "indubitably, here." He shifted a little, sure hands guiding Gilbert's hot forehead into the safe crook of his neck, their breasts to fall in line. If Hanneman couldn't hear Gilbert's tempest pulse before, couldn't see it in his shuddering... he could feel it then, reverberating in him like a church organ.

"Peace, Gilbert." How was it that every time he spoke, his voice softened? Like a bird's fledging, going down from sleek flight feathers to the innermost, wispiest down? Gilbert muffled a whimper in the neckline of Hanneman's nightshirt, suffused himself with the smell of sandalwood.

Hanneman's hand drifted slowly, gingerly from the tense cable of his spine, into the barely-there curve of his waist. Dipped under the bedclothes, then, and kissed whatever of Gilbert he could reach at his shiver. "I'll care for you."

Gilbert couldn't take it--Hanneman's fingertips ventured just below the waistband of his breeches, questioning, giving leeway--he wanted to break, wanted to _plead._

It was only when he heard himself that he realized he had. Just the slightest bit--a terse, tight, tender _please,_ but it was enough.

"My pleasure," Hanneman whispered, and slipped his hand the rest of the way down, wrist bending, fingers curling artful, precise where Gilbert needed them.

It was the slightest touch, experimental. It didn't matter--the tension in Gilbert's hips snapped, and he couldn't help the way he rutted into that scholar-soft palm, couldn't help the wetting of his eyes, the sob that shook out of him.

And Hanneman soothed him, held his hand still, kissed lightly the shell of his ear. "That's it," he whispered, and Gilbert felt the breath as much as he heard him, and trembled. "Is this alright? Dear one, you're so heavy in my hand, you must have been _aching."_

There was nothing for it but to be honest, not with Hanneman so close, treating him so delicately. Like one of the spindly, convoluted instruments that clutter his shelves, Hanneman handled him like an artifact, something not so easily replaced.

Gilbert sobbed out his yes, and could not stop--could only curl closer into Hanneman, could only quiver and spasm and drip, into his hand or the collar of his nightshirt.

"Good, wonderful... Ask me for this any time you need, dearheart, yes? Even if it isn't a need, even if only on a whim." Hanneman trailed off a moment, crooning soft in Gilbert's ear, just a sweet solace of nonsense.

Picked up his line of thought again, spoke it sweet and clear: "It is no hardship, my darling, making love to you."

And Gilbert was, then, a pair of forced-march boots--worked grueling for years, withering until _just then,_ when his seams finally frayed too far, unraveled, and all of him fell weak, wailing against his love.

The urge to apologize rang in him, but it was somewhere a long way out. No, there was nothing he can do but shiver, sniveling, spilling into Hanneman's hand. Nothing he could do but feel warm breath in his hair, try to parse soft-spoken praises. _Lovely,_ he thought he heard, _perfect,_ and permission, over and over, to _let go._

He came to crying, hiding his face away even further into Hanneman's chest, letting his warmth, his gentleness surround him. There was irony there, he thought, with his last half-measure of bitterness. He was supposed to be the pillar, the stalwart sentinel.

If Hanneman was conscious of this reversal, he didn't say anything. Just mumbled some cantrip, and it must have been to clean his hand because in the next instant those slim fingers were stroking the nape of his neck, soothing the tension out of him, making him slacken and sigh.

"Rest now, Gilbert, you've done wonderfully," Hanneman told him, "Just beautifully, my dear, and I cannot tell you... There's no expressing how lovely you were, and how honored I am to have been able to see you--to care for you this way."

Gilbert could only breathe, steadying, and hope he'd still believe it in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> hello! a gold star to you for getting through this--either you're humoring me or you are of rare taste and fortitude. i salute you.
> 
> please let me know how you felt about this! i love getting ~~validation~~ feedback from all of you!!
> 
> the title of this piece, like the last one, comes from ciaran lavery's shame, which is fucking excellent and you should go listen to it now.
> 
> if you have found yourself ensnared in dad heaven (hell?), please come hang out with me on [twitter!!!](https://twitter.com/bird_scribbles)


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